


The Feast of Saint Hubert

by MToddWebster (RembrandtsWife)



Series: Tales of the Forest God [3]
Category: Andrew Hozier-Byrne (Musician)
Genre: Animal Death, Animal Transformation, Bisexual Male Character, Deer, Forest Sex, Hunters & Hunting, M/M, Sacrifice, Self-Sacrifice, The Forest God - Freeform, gay forest sex, pansexual forest god
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-10-01 16:08:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20331001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RembrandtsWife/pseuds/MToddWebster
Summary: (The Forest God speaks) I have had one true bride over many centuries, yet I have also had many lovers, in different times and places. And I have lived many lives, and also died many deaths. Here is the tale of one of them....





	The Feast of Saint Hubert

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: I looked up actual medieval French names for this story. Because I'm obsessive like that.
> 
> Thanks again to gloriousthorn and roosebolton for encouragement and top-tier comments.

_(The Forest God speaks) I have had one true bride over many centuries, yet I have also had many lovers, in different times and places. And I have lived many lives, and also died many deaths. Here is the tale of one of them...._

My name is Ancelin, and I am the son of Audouard Marcoul, a nobleman by blood if not by wealth. For hundreds of years, the Marcouls have dwelt in the Ardennes in the north of France, in the shadow of woods and mountains, where there are deeper secrets than Christian men should know. I have seen things face to face that I would not speak of in church, and I know to whom my soul belongs when it shall leave this mortal life. Of these things I will tell, now that I am old and about to depart.

I was twenty and three years old when the crops failed in the summer, and the early harvests were poor in orchard as well as field. The weather turned chill early, and we lost some of our cattle to a mysterious illness that had our tenants muttering about witches and devils. I hunted often, for deer and occasionally boar that I might share out with our people, yet the numbers of wild beasts seemed fewer than usual, even to the fish in the streams. People were growing hungry, myself among them, when my father spoke to me one night.

"Winter is coming," my father said. He threw another log on the meager fire and stoked it, but it was still cold in the hall. "We have enough wood cut, I suppose. But we have scant of everything else."

"I know, father." I folded my arms so I could hide my cold hands in my oxters. I was too proud to rub them together over the flames as my father did, or perhaps too ashamed of being so cold.

"We must do something, my boy, or we will lose more than cattle this winter. The very old and the very young, at least, may perish."

"What can we do, father? You cannot control the winds of heaven, or call down rain or cure a pestilence." I spat into the fire, wishing for a flagon of warm ale, but we had little of that, either. "It seems all miracles are past, and all magic is for doing ill, not good."

My father did not answer at once. He only stirred up the logs on the hearth again, and shifted on the bench. "What if I told you," he said at last, "that a deed might be possible to you, perhaps a miracle, perhaps... magic?"

I ought to have been surprised at his words and demurred. Instead, I said at once, "I would essay this deed, if it might put food in hungry mouths and get us through the winter."

A gust of wind howled loud outside the hall. My father shuddered as though he felt its chill, though his feet were nearly in the flames. "What do you know of Saint Hubert, lad?"

"What everyone knows, of course. How after his lady wife died in childbirth, he hid himself in the forest and saw no man, only beasts, and hunted the deer all alone. Then the Lord appeared to him as a deer that bore a crucifix between its antlers, spoke to him, and told him he must repent and go seek a holy man to teach him. And so he did, and he became a bishop and died a saint, who is venerated everywhere, especially by those who hunt."

"Aye, that is the legend," my father said. "But there is another legend, one that says Hubert saw a god other than Jesus Christ, a god who has had the form of a deer since before our Lord was born."

I frowned at father. "I have heard the peasants muttering about the old gods, but surely that is superstition. If those gods ever existed, they were driven out by the holy men of the true faith."

"So the holy men would have us believe." He smiled thinly. "But I have seen and heard things in yonder woods that would make your ordinary monk or priest run crying for mercy. I came back safe from those adventures, and have held my tongue. But now I must speak, so that we have enough food and fuel for the winter."

"Speak, then. I am ready."

"I know this is true because I myself did so, when I was little older than you are." My father sat up straight and looked straitly upon me. "If you go into the forest on the feast of St. Hubert and pray for help to the god St. Hubert saw, before you hunt or forage, you will have good results to your labors and blessings for the winter ahead."

Superstition, surely. Yet my father had never been one to lie to me, nor did he ever cozen or soften the truth. There was no one I trusted more.

"If you wish me to make trial of this, father, I will do so." The feast of St. Hubert was no more than ten days hence.

"I beseech that you would. Consider this not a command, but a request." He laid his hand upon my knee.

"At your request, I will do it."

"Thank you, son."

He rose to go to bed, then, and we spoke no more of it. But on the feast of St. Hubert, just after All Saints' Day, I rose early and put on my hunting leathers, gathered my bow and arrows and my good spear, and bent the knee before him in the hall as he was breaking his fast.

"Father, I am going out hunting, with your blessing."

He put a morsel of bread and cheese in my hands, which I ate, and laid his hands on my head. "May the god who blessed St. Hubert also bless you."

It was cold and barely light when I rode out. I was glad for my cloak of wool trimmed with fur and my jacket and boots lined in fleece. I was glad also for the pottle of warm ale tied to my saddle and the bread and cheese my father had given me. As I drew near to the outskirts of the forest, the wind began to rise, until it seemed to be blowing down the mountain directly into my face, driving me back.

I persevered, however, riding into the forest until I found the trail I usually rode to search for signs of deer. I stopped by a spring and poured the dregs of my ale onto the earth, then refilled my pottle with the water. “May the god who spoke to St. Hubert speak to me. May the god who blessed the forest in old times bless me today.” I drank the spring water, which was cold enough to make my teeth hurt, and filled up the pottle again before I went on.

I did not have to search long for my quarry. Indeed, I saw no signs of deer, no tracks, no scrapes of bark made by antlers, no scat. Only without warning, a full-grown buck with magnificent antlers walked into my path.

A shaft of sunlight speared the forest canopy and fell upon his proud head. Verily he seemed to have a halo, like an angel in a stained glass window. He turned his head and looked right at me, and a voice in my head commanded me, “Shoot now. Shoot, and shoot true.”

I raised the bow in my hand and nocked an arrow, slow and careful. The stag did not move, not even to turn away. I drew the bow and aimed for the throat, where a good shot would cause the blood to flow freely and bring a swift death. My horse was as still beneath me as the stag was ahead of me. I breathed out a prayer with my shot.

The arrow landed squarely in the beast’s tawny throat. With a cry, the stag stumbled forward, went down on two legs, then on all four. Astonished, for I had expected to pursue the beast a ways, I swung down from the saddle and approached slowly, my bow still at the ready and my other hand on the knife at my belt.

“You will not need your bow, friend,” said a voice that seemed to come from all around me. “Only your knife, and your heart.”

What lay on the forest path, bleeding from the piercing of my arrow, was not a stag, but a man. Or else it was both stag and man, a spirit of the forest, or else a god. I stooped beside him.

He had the antlers of a stag, though smaller than the beast’s great rack. He had the face of a man, with deep-set eyes green as moss, high cheekbones, a proud nose, and a wide mouth bordered by a beard that curled like his long, loose hair. He was naked, and his legs became hairy like a deer’s, though he had feet, not hooves. My arrow was lodged in his breast rather than his throat.

He was the most beautiful man I had ever seen, the most beautiful creature I had ever known, and my heart was his at once. To look on him brought back feelings I had long put down, the feelings I had for my friend Baudoin until he went into the monastery, the feelings that stirred within me when I heard of David and Jonathan in church, or read of Roland and Olivier at Roncesvaux.

He looked into my eyes and smiled. “Have you come for a blessing, son of Marcoul?”

I bowed my head. “Yes, lord. My household and our tenants grow hungry, and we fear the old and the weak and the young will die in the coming winter.”

“No one will die, if you obey my word.” He reached out and grasped my wrist; his hand was as solid and warm as any living man’s.

“You must take the sword from your saddle and strike off my head. Then I shall return to the form of a stag, and you must take home both head and body and have a great feast. Hang up my head as a trophy and lay a plate before me and a cup of the best wine. Then, on the feast of St. Martin, come back to the forest unarmed, and lie with me, man to man, and your people shall be well for a year and a day.”

I blinked at him like an owl in the sun. “Lord, the Church says that for man to lie with man is a sin.”

He laughed, weakly. “Does the Church not also say that all the old gods are devils, and consorting with them is sin? Yet here you are.” He pressed a hand to the spot where the arrow went in. “Now either tarry no longer but strike, or else go home empty-handed to an empty larder and a cold hearth.”

I did as he had bidden me. With a heavy heart I rose and took the falchion from my saddle-bow. I stood over him, wishing he were the stag I thought I had felled. He nodded and closed his eyes. And I raised the sword and struck hard, my eyes closing, too, as the blow fell.

When I opened my eyes, there was a dead stag lying at my feet, its head severed from its body. “Thank you, lord,” I said softly. Then I set about tying the remains to my horse to bring them home.

There was great rejoicing when I returned, laden with spoils of the hunt, and called for a feast. While the venison turned on the spit of our great hearth at the manor, our people brought ale and wine, frumenty and simmered onions, what few apples and other fruits they had stored. I cleaned the head of the stag and placed it on a seat of its own, like an honored guest. The people gathering in the hall to dine looked sidelong at it, but my father said nothing when I placed a portion of food and drink before it, muttering thanks once again.

We all ate and drank freely and went to bed warm and full for the first time in weeks. We woke, I suppose, as hungry as ever, but father and I began to hear from our tenants that the fish were running again, their snares were catching rabbits, and they were gathering late fruit. Father bade them go into the forest for woodfall, mushrooms, acorns, and herbage, and they came back with their arms full. 

I counted the days and rose early on the feast of St. Martin. I told my father once again that I was going out hunting, and he gave me his blessing, but I saddled and rode out without my bow or any weapon save the knife I always carried. I struck my usual trail into the forest and stopped at the spring. This time I had a pottle of wine, the gift of an old friend of my father who had visited us and brought bread and beef as well. I poured out some of it by the spring and said aloud, “Lord of the forest, I have come to fulfill our bargain.”

I heard no word, I saw no sign. Leading my horse, I walked into the woods, not so much seeking as waiting to be found. I came to a clear space around a massive oak tree, the largest I had ever seen, with a hollow place in its trunk large enough to hide a man. The canopy opened up overhead, and in a shaft of light, I saw him, the man with antlers, the forest god. 

He was clothed now like a huntsman, in leathers and woollens of brown and green, with only the antlers upon his head to signal his wild nature. He held out a gloved hand to me. “Will you come with me, Ancelin, son of Audouard?”

I took his hand. “I will, my lord.”

He led me toward the hollow oak. “What do you see in the heart of the tree?”

I looked. “I see darkness, my lord.”

“Is that all?”

I looked again, and longer. “I see stars, my lord.” For indeed, there were twinkles of light like the stars in the sky in the darkness of the hollow tree.  
“Then keep hold my hand, and come with me.”

The lord of the forest stepped into the hollow, bending down that he might not strike his antlers on it. I had no such need to bend, being shorter than he. We stepped not into darkness and the small space of a hollow trunk, but into a twilight place. A flight of rough stone steps led down to a circle of trees about a pool that glowed golden from within. We seemed to be in a forest within the forest, but a forest without a season; trees were in leaf and some in bloom, others with leaves of red and gold, still others bare of branch. 

Within the circle, the ground was carpeted with leaves of every color and soft sprays of fir. By the edge of the pool, the forest god turned to me, smiling. “Will you lie with me here, Ancelin?”

I swallowed my fear. “I will, lord, but I know not how such a thing is done.”

He laughed softly. “There are many ways it can be done. It need not be difficult. Have you kissed a maid before?”

“Aye, lord.”

“Then let us kiss in the same way.”

It was not the same, at all, as kissing a maid. No maid I had ever seen stood a head taller than I, nor had they the antlers of a stag, making them still taller. No maid had a rough beard, though his lips were ever so soft, pink as summer petals, and his breath was sweet.

He drew away from me. “You are still not certain of this. Would it help if I looked like this?”

He shook himself briefly, like a hawk rousing. The antlers then were gone; he was still very tall, but looked merely mortal, his clothing not so fine as my own. His gloves, jerkin, and boots also had vanished, as had mine.

“Yes, I think so, lord.” 

“I have kissed you, Ancelin. Will you kiss me?”

I stepped up and drew his face down to mine, closing my eyes and simply feeling the touch of him. His long locks brushed my face, smelling of pine needles and wet earth. His mouth was gentle, and so were his long hands that cupped my face as I cupped his. 

He sighed as the kiss ended. It was that sigh, so soft and vulnerable, which stirred something deep within me, making me want to kiss him again, and with more fervor. I did so, and he responded in kind, teasing at my lips with his tongue and letting his hands fall to my hips. We kissed more deeply, tasting of each other’s mouths, and my body roused to the touch so ardently that my trembling was part desire and part fear.

Smiling, he began to loose my belt. He then unlaced my tunic and drew it over my head, laying his hand over my heart. I shivered, not because his hand was cold, but because even through the thin linen of my undershirt, it was warm as sunlight. I took off the shirt myself, baring my body to him. To my surprise, he sank to his knees before me and drew down my trews, exposing my erect member to his sight.

He glanced up at me with a look that was suddenly wanton. “Hold on to me, if needs must,” he said, and without further delay, he took hold of my manhood with his hand and mouth. 

I cried aloud in shock and pleasure. Surely this was unlawful, this sweet congress of mouth and sex from which no children could spring. Nay, it must have been made unlawful so that men would not spend all their time and their vigor in such pleasures, forsaking the getting of children along with all other efforts.

I would have swooned if I had not, as he hinted, braced myself with hands upon his shoulders. He worked me skillfully with hand and mouth, lips and tongue, until I spilled heedlessly within his mouth, then slumped weak as a babe to the forest floor.

The lord of the forest stretched out beside me, looking down at me with humour and, I think, some fondness. “That is one way a man may please another. There are others, some simpler, some far less so.”

I closed my eyes in languor but forced them open again. “What may I do for you, lord?”

He touched my face tenderly. “If you are agreeable, I can join with you in a similar fashion to man and woman. A man’s body can accommodate another man’s…,” his hand slid down my body, “here,” and cupped my buttock. I contracted in fear, and he laughed softly and kissed me. “But we need not do that. Let me embrace you….”

I yielded willingly to his lean arms around me, his mouth on mine again. I tasted my seed on his tongue yet did not withdraw from it. When had he removed his clothes? I felt his member stroking hard and hot against my belly, close to my own, which was rising again. Soon we were rutting together as beasts do, my fingers finding their way into the masses of his hair, his hands cupping my face and stroking my back. Gasping into the god’s mouth, I spent a second time, and he poured out his seed with me.

I lay back on the soft leaves, still breathless and trembling. He soothed me with slow caresses until I settled down, then took my hand. “Come, let us bathe in the pool.”

It came as no surprise now that the waters of the pool were warm. We washed away our bodies’ effusions, and I dipped below the waters to wet my hair. I felt as if I had been baptised anew; blasphemy, no doubt, and yet I felt no fear nor shame.

“You must return to your own world now, but I lay this charge on you: Return to the forest on this day, in years to come. If you slight me, I will know, but if you stay away out of illness or the weakness of age, I will know and forgive. Will you do this, Ancelin?”

“I will, my lord.” I bowed my head and kissed his hand.

He led me out of the place within the tree, and I found my way back to my horse. I did not hasten home, though it was late in the day; I needed time to think.

My father looked long at me when I returned, empty-handed, but said nothing. I remembered he said he had made the same bargain with the god as a youth. Had he, too, returned to the forest every year to tryst with the antlered one? But it was not a thing I could speak of to him.

Yesterday I returned to the forest for what I know will be the last time. I am old, and my lord is as youthful as ever. He kissed me and held me in his arms, and I felt young again. Nevertheless, I know my time is short. 

I have written this account for my son Baudoin, the youngest of my children. He alone has the look of one who would seek the forest god and find joy in it. I charge you, Baudoin, not to share this with your mother, the kindest and most patient of wives, or with your brothers and sisters. Remember that I named you after one whom I loved when I was too young to know it, and may the lord of the forest bless you.

**Author's Note:**

> My main blog at Tumblr is [rembrandtswife](http://rembrandtswife.tumblr.com) and my Hozier sideblog is [palaceofobsessions](http://palaceofobsessions).


End file.
